Our First Case
by kazumigirl
Summary: Watson meets Holmes. Despite the detective's reputation, he's determined to live with him. Preslash.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1  
**

****

Author's note: Okay, I've never read the original stories. I don't really know how they met. This is probably very, very innacurate. I hope you don't mind :(  
Anywho, enjoy!

I was happy to be back home, but I was no longer the same. Afghanistan had changed me, though I wasn't really sure how. I was at _loose ends_, as some might put it. Unsettled, not quite ready to put adventure away just yet. Of course, opening a practice was my own way of lying that I _would_ still have that thrill. I figured once I was called out to patients, I would be far too busy to feel those imaginary ants crawling over me.

I found a boarding house, some of its rooms vacant, and I decided to stop and have a look. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, seemed very happy to see me, and practically pulled me inside when I introduced myself. Her hair looked older than her face, and her eyes were wide and shifty.

"I haven't had somebody come to look at the place in ages!" She chirped, bringing some tea into the parlor. "I can't lower the price even further than I already have."

I sipped my tea, looking around. Unless it was haunted, I could see no physical flaws in its structure. It seemed peaceful, quiet, sturdy. I set my cup down. "Is something wrong with the house?"

She tapped her fingers against her own cup awkwardly, her eyes raising towards the stairs. She'd done this more than once, I noticed. It was like the North Pole was up there and her eyes were a set of magnets. I followed her gaze, deliberately turning my head.

"Nothing is wrong with the house," she chuckled. "It's just...I already have one renting, and he...can be a handful to live with."

"Oh?" I continued to stare up the stairs.

"I've had some renters in the past...they just can't handle his..." she paused, and shook her head. "Well, he's _different._"

From the tone of her voice, I figured the boarder might be mentally handicapped, most likely a relative. Being a doctor, and a war veteran, I had a lot of patience, and had always had a soft spot for those who could not help themselves. I smiled, scratching my head. I really did hate to give away that I was such a softy when it came to such matters.

"Mrs. Hudson," I said. "I'm a doctor, I understand these things." I leaned forward to return my empty teacup to its saucer. "I can assure you that your current resident will not bother me."

The landlady only stared at me. She finally broke her gaze and sighed, standing up to collect the dishes. "You don't know Sherlock Holmes," she said quietly, raising her eyebrows and shaking her head.

I guess I also have a bit of a stubborn streak to me. "When can I move in?"

--------------

I began my move the next day, not having many things to begin with. I'd wanted a fresh start and figured I was young enough to make new memories, so I'd only taken necessities, and some of my writings.

I moved up and down the stairs, carrying carton after carton, always passing the mysterious area where some sort of phantom menace of a resident lurked, apparently. I imagined some poor, deformed deaf and dumb creature, huddled in a corner, waiting for some kind of interaction. My imagination went a little overboard, and I could see Mrs. Hudson opening the door a crack, throwing in a crust of bread, some cheese, quickly closing it back and locking it tight. I shook my head.

I decided to see for myself, mentally rehearsing my introduction, incase he truly couldn't communicate, or understand English, for that matter. I kocked at the door, softly, and heard something clatter around. The door opened, but only a crack.

"Um, hello?" I took a step back from the door. "You must be Mr. Holmes?"

The door opened just a bit wider. He didn't look deformed, only disheveled. His dark hair was unkempt, his face unshaven, his clothes smudged and dirty, hanging off of him, not fitting quite right. In one hand he held a violin, in the other-some sort of rooted up plant. It was sprinkling dirt all over the floor.

"I'm Dr. Watson," I greeted, holding out my hand. "I'm renting out part of the house."

He didn't shake it, only stared at it. " 'Doctor'?" he repeated quietly, as if to himself rather than me.

"Yes," I shrugged, still smiling.

"Very nice to meet you, Doctor." He shook my hand. "I promise I will try and stay out your way. I'm sure you'll be very busy in setting up your practice after the war."

My brows furrowed slightly. How did he know I was back from war? I hadn't even told Mrs. Hudson. He took notice of my confusion and said, "Your handshake," he explained. "Your directness, your walking stick." he took it right out of my hand and retrieved the blade within. "Afghanistan, I presume."

"Yes." I nodded. "That's, um, that's very clever."

"Not really." He handed me my cane back. "Facts are all in plain sight."

I guess he didn't understand I was giving him a compliment. I had already decided there was nothing wrong with him, so my next mystery was figuring out why so many had moved out because of him. I liked the house, and I planned on staying. My flatmate hardly seemed threatning so far.

"Mrs. Hudson told me she's cooking dinner tonight," I said after a few moments of silence. "Perhaps...maybe..."

"Not interested." He closed the door in my face.

Being rude was not a good enough reason to leave, but I believed I was starting to understand why the formers hadn't liked him anyway. I felt a little put off by the incident, but told myself he was probably just incredibly busy, or shy. I continued to move my things, and when I was finished, I collapsed on my new bed, sighing.

I had just started to doze, some time later, when the sound of a gunshot sounded. I sat up, feeling my pistol in my pocket. I knew I couldn't leave it there forever, but after returning from war, hostility becomes second nature. I heard another, and another, and realized it was coming from Holmes' room.

"Not again!" Mrs. Hudson said from the staircase, shaking her head.

I figured she was frightened, so I nodded at her. "I'll find out what's going on."

I knocked on his door again, receiving no response. "Holmes?"

The door opened, and my eyebrows furrowed. Dirt and smoke was everywhere. Even without, the room was a wreck, cluttered beyond any recognition of living quarters. I looked around slowly. Holmes watched me, suspiciously, and explained, "I was trying to see if this rare plant from the coast of the black seas could provoke a larger impact from a gun bullet."

I honestly think he thought me to believe it made sense. I stared at him, and then back at the mess. "I don't think our landlady appreciates you experimenting that."

He shrugged, waving her away with his hand. "Mrs. Hudson," he frowned, shaking his head. "She's out to kill me, you know."

I stared at him again. Maybe something was wrong with his head. He caught me looking at him and said, "Just facts, old boy. Just facts."

"So..." I moved further into the room, moving things around with my shoe. "Why do you live here then?"

"I'm not afraid of death," he said, moving through the clutter faster than me and picking up a violin. He gave it a few plucks. "Besides, she's very important to a case I'm working on. I think she might be a jewel thief."

I stopped walking. " 'A jewel thief'?" I knelt down to pick up a paper on the floor. "And how long have you been working on this case?"

"Since I moved in," he said, giving no further clarification. _Pluck, pluck, pluck._

"It's very unhygenic to live like this," I said, my doctor side kicking in. "You could get really sick."

"Don't tell me what to do." He said it so casually, like he was commenting on the weather.

_Pluck, pluck, pllllluuuuuuccccccck._

I nodded. Apparently, we were never going to get along. Still, I wouldn't move out like the others. This was my house too now, and I had every right to live here in peace. I moved back to the door.

"So what are you?" I asked, one last feeble attempt to make conversation. "A detective?"

He didn't answer. He was staring into space, still plucking away at his violin. I left the room. I didn't want to admit that my feelings were slightly hurt. I mean, who'd even want a friend like that? Still, I couldn't help but feel a little disheartened. I'd been yearning for companionship, and didn't really have the time to go out and make friends.

------------

Mrs. Hudson and I ate dinner together, and after we'd finished, she began packing food away.

"Is somebody coming over?" I asked, watching her bundle leftovers together.

She shook her head. "I'm sending it up to Mr. Holmes."

I raised my eyes to the stairs. "I wouldn't. He should have come out when he had the chance."

The landlady sighed. "I used to think the same thing, Doctor." She began making some tea. "But he's a stubborn one, that man, and believe me-" she put everything in a cloth bundle. "If I don't feed him, he won't eat. He doesn't remember to."

I laughed. "That's ridiculous! And if he told you that-"

"Dr. Watson." Her eyes told me she was serious. "Trust me, he forgets."

She started to carry the food up, but I stopped her, offering to take it myself. I don't know what it was. I'd never really been that persistant, but something about him made me want to _make_ him accept me. I guess it's because I'd never really been disliked. Not that I was busting with popularity, but still...

I didn't knock on his door this time, but just opened it instead. I was surprised to find it wasn't locked. For such a neurotic loon, he wasn't very careful about his safety.

He had taped several sheets of paper to the walls since I'd last visited him. The papers were littered with notes, and he paced back and forth, observing them closely.

"I brought you some food," I said, daring to step inside.

He didn't even look at me. "Is it evening already?"

I looked at his black-out curtains. "Yes."

He turned around, eyeing the cloth parcel in my hand. "What is it?"

"Does it matter?" I tried my best not to scoff. "Mrs. Hudson was nice enough to make you something."

"Of course it matters." He stared at me, like a professor about to give a stern lecture. "Say I don't know, and I eat it anyway. And it turns out I have a rare, but deadly food allergy, and Mrs. Hudson knew all along. Then she waits for me to succumb to death, painfully, slowly. When I finally take my last breath, she comes in and steals my rare ruby pendant."

I didn't even know how to react. I finally managed to aske, "You have a rare ruby pendant?"

"No." He shrugged. "But if I did, I guarantee you that Mrs. Hudson would have already had her menacing eyes on it."

"Right." I set the food down. "Well, I'll just leave this here then." I headed back for the door. "You can study it...if you like, just incase something might trigger an allergy."

He glanced at the food again. "One moment, Doctor."

I turned back.

"Perhaps you might stay a bit," he said. "Just incase the ingridient is well-hidden, and my throat closes, and I cannot make any sound."

I guess it was his charming way of asking me to join him. I closed the door behind me, moving his way. "Where shall I sit?"

To Be Continued...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: My First Patient**

I watched as Holmes examined the food, crumb by crumb. He ate very little of it and quickly pushed it out of his way, standing up. It gave me a good idea of why he was a bit on thin side. I watched as he moved across the room, returning to his paper wall. He stared up at the notes, his eyes following each and every character on every single page. He didn't even seem to remember that I was there.

"Another one of your _cases_?" I finally spoke.

He didn't even look at me. "Yes."

I stood up, gathering the left over food, which there was a lot of. "Well," I said, unsure of what else to do or say. "Goodnight then."

He turned around that time, doing a doubletake. "Yes." He nodded, smiling a little. "Goodnight."

------------

My practice was slow, hardly even off to a start, and I itched to get out of the house, or at least out of my room. I rarely saw Holmes during the day. Once or twice I'd seen him leave the house, but that was it. It was different in the evening. I'm not sure why, but I'd taken it upon myself to bring him dinner every night. He still only picked at his food, growing bored with it quickly, and always sent me back to the kitchen with a full plate.

Most people in their right minds wouldn't cater to a shut-in madman, but in my defense, I had nothing better to do. I didn't have _anything_ to do.

Holmes was my very first patient. It was one afternoon, a rainy one at that, when he returned home from one of his mysterious outtings, bloody and beaten. I had been organizing some of my things when I heard Mrs. Hudson start clucking downstairs for me.

"Doctor!" She called. "Doctor, do you have a moment?"

I left my room and moved to the top of the staircase. Holmes was standing beside the landlady, dripping water, dirt, and blood all over the floor. I hurried down the stairs. "What happened?"

Holmes only shrugged. " 'few minor scratches," he muttered, trying to move past us to head for the stairs.

I took him by the arm, studying him from head to toe. "You need medical attention." When nothing registered to his face, I added, "Now."

Mrs. Hudson tsked at the dirty floor. "Mr. Holmes, could you possibly stay out of trouble for just one day?"

I pointed to the stairs. "Meet me in my room." I watched him go upstairs and turned to Mrs. Hudson. "Does he return like this often?"

The landlady shook her head. "I've lost count, Doctor." She sighed. "He's come in here beaten, stabbed, shot, nearly strangled, mangled, tangled..."

----------------

Holmes was not in my room when I returned upstairs. I closed my door, turning heel and headed for his room. The door was locked when I tried to open it. "Holmes?" I knocked again. "It really is alright. I'm a doctor." Still no response. "I can help you." Nothing.

I returned downstairs where Mrs. Hudson was sweeping the floor. "Do you have a master key?"

"Of course." Her eyebrows raised. "Is his door locked?"

"Yes."

She shook her head. "I wouldn't bother him, Doctor. I know you mean well, but he's a very, very odd individual. He doesn't connect with other people."

I followed her into the sitting room. She opened a drawer, retrieving a key. She handed it to me, her eyes filled with doubt. I looked at the key. "I'm not trying to connect with him."

-------------

I unlocked Holmes' door and found him sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. He was staring into space, plucking his violin. Blood and grit created a protective circle around him.

"So she gave you the key?" He asked, not looking at me.

I didn't answer him. I knelt down, setting my medical kit beside me. He jumped a little when I pulled at his arm, rolling up the sleeve. I turned it over, checking for gash wounds or bruises. I found both. He looked at me questioningly, but I still said nothing. If he was going to be silent and distant with me, well then, two could play at that game. I cleaned the wounds on his arms, dressing them quickly, and then moved for his other arm.  
He winced as I doused the wounds with alcohol, and fidgeted impatiently while I bandaged them. When I moved to his face, leaning closer with cotton and tweezers for the smaller abrasions, he pulled away. He grabbed my arm, and with the other made a fist, like he was going to strike me. He stopped himself, licking his lips and looking away. I continued with my work.

"Did you win?" I asked.

He shook his head. "It's difficult, you see, when it's one against seven."

"Seven with knives, I'm guessing," I said, bandaging a clean gash across his left cheek.

When I finished, I leaned back on my knees and cocked my head, admiring my work. Holmes fingered the bandages, as if he'd never seen them before, and picked up his violin. He began to play again, staring off into space. I packed up my kit and headed for the door, turning my head just in case he decided to thank me. He didn't.

* * *

I was surprised to find Holmes in my room. My practice had finally taken off, and when I returned home after seeing to a patient, he was standing beside my bookcase, reading the titles. He heard me close the door and turned to me. "Doctor," he said.

"Yes." I looked around, taking off my hat. "Can I help you?"

"Yes you can." He walked over to me, holding up his hand, which was bleeding from a gash going right down his palm.

"What did you do _now_?" I asked, quickly removing my coat and tossing it onto the floor. I took his hand in mine, trying to figure out how deep the cut was.

"I rolled off several stacked crates in abandoned warehouse, and landed on a pile of scrap metal," he replied casually, as if it were the most normal response in the world.

My brows furrowed. "Right."

I led him over to a chair and he sat, his eyes never leaving me. I retrieved my kit once more, knowing that this required something far more painful than alcohol. His eyes widened and he jerked his hand away when I fished out my surgical thread and needle. I sighed, giving him a look. "It has to be done."

"No it doesn't."

"It'll become infected."

"I can live with that."

"You'll have to have it amputated."

Wordlessly, he held out his hand, looking away. I know it hurt like hell, having to had stiched my own wounds before, and I tried to be gentle, but quick. I could see him trying not to wince, so I began talking to him. "What were you doing at an abandoned warehouse?"

"Looking for a man," he said, glancing at his hand nervously. "He's involved in a human-trafficing scandal."

"Really now?" I raised my eyes to him. "So you're quite the hero."

He shook his head. "Just the sleuth."

I finished, cleaning the dried blood around the thread, and released his hand. "It's going to hurt for a while," I warned. He clenched his fist and stopped halfway, pain crossing his face.

-------------------

Holmes seemed a bit more trusting of me more and more each day. If we happened to cross paths outside of our rooms, he'd greet me. The previous encounters had just been my saying hello and him staring blankly. He came to me with various cuts and bruises, all which I mildly scolded him for.

I had gotten in touch with an old friend through a patient, and was going to join him and a few others for dinner. Just as I opened my bedroom door to leave, Holmes was standing there, about to knock.

"Oh, hello," I said. "Something wrong?"

He looked me up and down. "Are you going somewhere?"

I nodded. "Yes, dinner with some friends." I opened my pocketwatch. "Running late, actually," I chuckled.

He didn't chuckle. In fact, he frowned, looking down at the floor. When he looked back up, he said, "Well, have a pleasant outting then."

I really needed to be going, but I was curious as to why he'd been at my door. He didn't seem to be dripping blood all over the place. "Did you need something?" I asked.

He had already been walking away, and he stopped to turn around. "Hm? Oh, nothing."

----------------

I hate to admit that dinner with friends bored me. It was exactly what I'd wanted, and sitting at the table in the upscale restaurant, I couldn't help but check my watch repeatedly under the table. They were nice enough, but I guess after living with an eccentric maniac, normal people can seem rather dull.

When I returned home, after excusing myself early to visit an imaginary patient, I stopped at Holmes' door. I had been on my way to my room, but I just felt like there was something that needed to be said between us. I knocked at his door, and then opened it, peeking inside. He was asleep on the floor, an open book beside him. I picked up the book and turned it over. It was one from my shelf. I knelt down and shook him gently. "Holmes?"

He opened his eyes drowsily, sitting up. He scratched his chest. "You're back," he observed, immediately awake.

"Yes." I sat down. "Did you enjoy the book?"

"I did." He nodded, looking off in the distance.

We were both silent for a moment. He finally asked, "Do you have many friends?"

I shrugged and shook my head at the same time. "At the moment, no." I sighed. "Lost touch with a lot of them after the war."

Holmes nodded again. He stood up and moved aross the room. "Well, I'm glad you had a..._good_ night."

"Not really," I said, chuckling. "I left early. Bored out of my bloody mind."

This seemed to please him, and he chuckled too. We looked at each other, and for no reason, our chuckles turned into laughter.

To Be Continued...


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Don't ask me how, but Holmes grew to like me more and more each day. I regularly tended to his wounds-luckily he returned with fewer knowing the treatments could sometimes be equally painful, if not more. We were also up to two meals per day, if you could count his nibbling as meals. It was better than nothing, I suppose.

He borrowed every single one of my books, one at a time, always without asking and returning them later. He even took the medical ones, some of them as thick and long as bibles. I don't know if he just liked to read, or he absorbed the information for his mysterious cases, or if he just wanted to start doctoring himself more often.

Speaking of cases, I nearly choked on my tea one morning, catching his name in the paper. It was front page news, a human smuggler caught by the police, with the help of Sherlock Holmes. There wasn't much about him, not even a picture. I guess I really hadn't believed his story after returning home with his hand sliced open. Mrs. Hudson entered the dining room, her eyes curiously scanning the paper from a distance. "He in the news?"

"Yes," I nodded. "Seems he really did assist the yard in a case."

The landlady laughed. "Oh, Doctor, he doesn't help them."

I looked at the paper. "No, it says right here-"

"He does it for them." She collected my dishes. "Mr. Holmes is a brilliant man, and many hire him to solve their cases. Sometimes he'll be booked for weeks on end."

This information truly surprised me. It also confused me. "Wait," I shook my head slightly. "I thought he can't interact with anybody properly. How on earth does he start an investigation business?"

"When you're in trouble, and you know somebody can help you," Mrs. Hudson said thoughtfully. "You typically ignore their odd quirks."

-----------

When I headed back upstairs, I stopped by Holmes' room. I figured I'd congradulate him, offer to take him out for lunch. I opened his door without knocking, and stepped inside. "Holmes?"

"Good morning, Doctor." He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by various items-a shred of cloth, a locket of hair, a crumpled sheet of paper, some coins.

"Congradulations on solving your case," I said.

He seemed surprised by the comment. I guessed he didn't get commended often. He finally managed a half smile and muttered a quick thanks before returning to his work. I rocked back and forth on my heels, looking around.

"I'm going out for lunch today," I said.

"With friends?" He looked up.

"No, by myself." I corrected myself. "Well, not by _myself_. I was going to ask if you'd like to join me."

He stared into space. I can't say that his silence didn't bother me. I couldn't help but think he was mentally searching for an excuse not to go.

"I understand you're busy." I finally shrugged, trying to act casual about it.

He returned his gaze to me. "Where would you like to go?"

--------------

We went to a cafe around the corner. It was small, quaint. I figured the perfect place for a man who doesn't like crowds. We sat in a table near the back, where the most anybody could see of us were the back of our heads. Neither us said anything, just looked at our menus. Holmes raised his eyebrows, sighing, and chucked his over his shoulder. I looked at him.

"Don't see anything you like?" I asked.

"Oh." He shook his head. "I read it already."

"You might want it," I warned, eyeing the menu that lay a few feet behind him. "To remember what you're going to order."

"I've memorized it entirely," he said. He then began to recite the menu, listing all of the items and their descriptions. I can't even believe that I wasn't surprised in the least. He'd stopped surprising me.

We both ordered sandwiches, and when our food arrived, he inspected it thoroughly before taking two small bites and placing his napkin atop his plate. I stared at it.

"So tell me, Watson," he said, pushing the plate away. "How is your practice coming along? I've noted that you've left to tend to patients sixteen times now."

"It's going," I said, shrugging one shoulder.

He picked up on the negativity in my voice. "Don't you like it?"

"It's just..." I sipped at my tea. "It's not what I was looking for, I think. I mean, I enjoy the work a great deal, but when I returned from Afghanistan, I was still 'on the battlefield'." I chuckled, staring into my cup. "If that makes any sense at all."

He didn't say anything.

------------

I had just entered the house from visiting a patient when somebody traveled up the steps behind me. A young woman. "Pardon-" she began, taking one step down.

"Hello," I said. "May I help you?"

"Pouvez-vous m'aider?" She spoke. Too bad I didn't understand French.

"Je ne parle pas du francais." Alright, so I knew some. Enough to tell her I didn't know any.

She looked down, biting her bottom lip. When she looked back up she tried one last feeble attempt. "Sherlock Holmes?" It sounded like Share-loak Hooms.

"Does he live here?" I looked at the door. "Oui, Oui." I opened it for her, motioning her inside.

I closed the door behind us and helped her remove her coat. She smiled sweetly at me and said, "Merci."

I motioned for her to wait where she was, and hurried up the stairs. I opened Holmes' door. He looked up from playing his violin. I nodded my head at the doorway. "Somebody's here to see you. They're here for a case."

He stood up. "Man or woman?"

"Woman." I followed him out, closing the door behind us. "She only speaks French."

I don't think he heard me, and when we went downstairs, I tried to tell him again. I opened my mouth but said nothing when he began to rattle off in her native tongue, as if it were his as well.

"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle," he said briskly. "Comment peux- vous aider?"

She blinked back a few tears, inhaling deeply. "Mon mari manque." She began to cry, and I fetched her a handkerchief. She sobbed out some more information and Holmes nodded, watching her the entire time.

"What's going on?" I asked him.

"Her husband appears to be missing," he said. "She said he didn't return home last night, and she knows that he owed somebody money." He pointed at her. "Middle-class, you can tell by the dress-style, she's petite, and you can tell by body shape that she has not had children. Which means they couldn't have been married long, thus making sense for her not to know _who_ he owes money."

"She told you all of that?" I asked skeptically.

"No, I deduced it," he replied casually. He began speaking with again and I listened. Well, not really listened, but paid attention.

"What's her name?" I asked.

He asked her.

"Corinne Durand," she sniffled. She then said something else and I caught a man's name-most likely her husband's. "Augustin Durand."

Holmes nodded, beginning to pace. "He's a warehouse worker," he said. "...doesn't make a lot of money, I'll bet he has a gambling problem. That narrows down our suspects to some degree."

I guess my face was blanker than anything.

"I know most of the illegal facilities in London," he explained with a shrug.

"Ah." I nodded.

------------------

Holmes and Corinne exchanged contact information, and Holmes informed her to return the following day. After she left, he began pacing again, muttering to himself.

"What are you going to do?" I asked.

"First I must go to the warehouse," he said. "Talk with some of his coworkers, if I'm lucky, that'll lead me straight to his betting parlor of choice." He tapped his finger against his chin, staring up at the ceiling. "They're most likely holding him for some sort or ransom. The girl's family is wealthy."

"How do you know that?" My brows furrowed.

"Her jewelry," he replied. "They're older, most likely heirlooms or keepsakes, the kind a mother would pass down to her daughter, or grandmother to granddaughter."

He grabbed his coat and hat by the door. I looked at him. "You're going now?"

"No better time than the present," he said, shrugging.

I hesitated, looking around. "I'm coming with you."

To Be Continued...


End file.
